


This is Home

by A_Butter_Churner



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is a dork pass it on, Fluff and Angst, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pining Grantaire (Les Misérables), Short & Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Butter_Churner/pseuds/A_Butter_Churner
Summary: Grantaire draws in a sharp breath, staring down at his scuffed-to-hell-and-back Converse on top of the fuzzy and impeccably trimmed welcome mat before him. The mat itself isn’t much bigger than a sheet a printer paper and is inconspicuous enough, just a plain brown piece of coarse fabric with little cross-hatchings and the word ‘WELCOME’ carved in blocky letters.But for some reason, it manifests in Grantaire’s brain as a gilded bridge to paradise, a key to a cavern of untold riches. That ‘WELCOME’ was screaming in his mind, a challenge, a dare.He wonders if he deserved to take it.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59
Collections: Enjoltaire Games 2020





	This is Home

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually pretty proud of this, thanks to Muse for setting this event up! 
> 
> Prompt- Picture 1  
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-eqfwhj1zTRHwk0IkRlFq_mp1UCDBZj4pk1lACuadis/edit?usp=sharing  
> Team- Grantaire :)

Grantaire draws in a sharp breath, staring down at his scuffed-to-hell-and-back Converse on top of the fuzzy and impeccably trimmed welcome mat before him. The mat itself isn’t much bigger than a sheet a printer paper and is inconspicuous enough, just a plain brown piece of coarse fabric with little cross-hatchings and the word ‘WELCOME’ carved in blocky letters.

But for some reason, it manifests in Grantaire’s brain as a gilded bridge to paradise, a key to a cavern of untold riches. That ‘WELCOME’ was screaming in his mind, a challenge, a dare.

He wonders if he deserved to take it.

Maybe it’s too late to be wondering that. Maybe he should’ve wondered that before he sold his apartment in New York. Maybe he should’ve let these thoughts fester before he packed up all of his things and left Eponine and her siblings: the people he’d ever truly considered family. Maybe he should’ve let these doubts seep into his brain before he booked a flight to Paris and flew halfway around the fucking world to get here, this exact spot, staring down at his dirty black-and-white sneakers, standing in front of a bright red door with a brass knocker like the ones on those fancy Manhattan brownstones.

Every inch of his body, every fiber of his being, tingles with one message: _“Leave. Go back. You shouldn’t be here.”_

His gaze drifts to the little doorbell, lit with a dull orange glow. He lifts his finger and let it hover over the button. All he had to do was press it. Press it and announce to the world that he was inserting himself into this perfect little Parisian equation. Once he pressed it, the polished red door would swing open and he would assume his position as the dark spot on the carpet that you keep _scrubbing_ at. _Scrub, scrub, scrub._ You get on your knees and grit your teeth but it _just won’t budge._

This was a mistake. To think he could make this his home.

He never could make anywhere home. Nothing and nowhere felt right.

\--

The place he was born wasn’t home for him, it never was. He still shuddered memories of hiding in the bathroom, locking the door tight as his mother shrieked in Spanish downstairs and his father flung frying pans and wooden chairs. He remembered his throat constricting as he clung to the toilets and the tears that pricked and stung his eyes when he climbed out the bathroom window, running to the tree house that was his and Eponine’s hideout from their parents. He remembered scurrying up the tree with heaving breaths only to find Eponine and her younger siblings already there, huddled in a corner. Her shushing him and gesturing to the other two who were asleep, their heads in her lap. Him laying his head on her shoulder and just _sobbing._

“I don’t like it here, ‘Ponine…” he remembered whispering.

“Me neither.” His friend had replied. “M’gonna get out of here. Soon.”

“Can I come with you?” Grantaire had whimpered.

Eponine had nodded. “You, me, Gav, and ‘Zelma.”

“We’re gonna do it.”

With every creak of the trembling wood and every rise and fall of Eponine’s too-bony shoulder, Grantaire was made more certain of something he already felt in his core: this was no place for him.

New York wasn’t necessarily home for him either. He and ‘Ponine had gotten away like they’d planned, her sibling in tow. They’d gotten an apartment and lived together before Azelma turned thirteen and they needed more space. He got to do his art, and live with the only people he felt he could ever love. And he was grateful for that. It was better than before, for sure. Some of his best memories were teaching Gavroche how to ride a bike or finally saving enough money to take Azelma to the opera or just sitting next to Eponine on the couch, head on her shoulder like in the treehouse, in a sweet silence. But it still didn’t feel right. He constantly felt like a guest, a one-night stand, as he twisted the keys to his apartment door, keys that weighed down in his pocket like a fistful of lead.

Keys that were taken away from him in a flurry of fear and scathing words when he’d ended up punching a hole in the wall above Eponine’s bed in a bout of drunken rage. Even now he winces remembering the unadulterated terror and pain in her voice as she snatched the keys from his hands.

“You can’t be trusted with these.”

\--

Standing outside the door now, Grantaire pulls out his phone and dials a number he hadn’t for a long, _long_ time.

_Ring, ring, ring_

It was a long shot, but _maybe—_

\--

New York winters were cold, freezing in fact. Grantaire sold his apartment because he couldn’t stand to look Eponine in the eyes anymore. He rented a smaller one in SoHo and devoted himself to his art, avoiding glances and hugging himself as the sleet hailed down like daggers, each flake nipping at his skin with tiny teeth. Black ice coated the streets leaving Grantaire to look down and count his steps so he wouldn’t trip. And it worked.

Until it didn’t.

To be fair, he was distracted by the young man in a scarlet coat who had bright red earmuffs pulled over his sandy blonde hair that glinted gold in the wintry sky. His clandestine blue eyes pierced Grantaire’s own from far away and for a moment Grantaire stopped breathing, complete with only one thought.

_This is home._

He didn’t know where the thought came from, but he felt it with every fiber in his being.

The man seemed hopelessly lost, perfect eyes darting around, like he was looking for something but didn’t know what it looked like. Then his lovely eyes landed on Grantaire and he _smiled._ Grantaire couldn’t remember the last time someone had smiled at him. This smile wasn’t a polite one either. It was wide-mouthed and Grantaire could see the gap in the blonde’s teeth and it really could only described as _dorky_ but, _boy_ did it make Grantaire’s heart swell.

And as if his feet were floating, transcending space and time, he was gliding like a swan over to the man, skating on the ice… then slipping.

“Whoa!” the blonde exclaimed in an accent one would call French. “Are you okay?”

“Nope!” Grantaire exclaimed in an accent that one would call Lovesick and beamed. “I’m Grantaire!”

\--

_Ring… click._

“R?” a rough whisper on the end of the line.

Grantaire gulps, trying to stifle his tears. “Eponine… I don’t think I can do this.”

\--

The first time Grantaire and Enjolras kissed was at an ice rink, because why not.

Grantaire took the blonde’s (yes, _that_ blonde) hands and pulled him along the perfectly chiseled ice in a fumbling dance and song. Every single scrape of their skates against the ice was a whispering promise or a premonition.

And as soon as Enjolras went down with a shrieking laugh, Grantaire’s lips were on his because he couldn’t hold it any longer.

And though the ice bit at their skin, Grantaire was warm with that thought he’d had the first time they’d met.

_This is home._

\--

“What do you mean, you can’t do it?” Eponine’s voice hisses through the phone.

Grantaire whispers back, a catch in his throat. “What if this turns out to be wrong? What if I ruin someone else’s life?” _I can’t do that to him_ , he doesn’t say.

“What if it _doesn’t,_ R? What if this turns out to be the best thing you’ve done since date him?”

“What if I hurt him?” Grantaire fucking whimpers, fingers _inches_ away from the doorbell.

“What if you don’t?”

\--

Grantaire draws in a sharp breath, staring down at his scuffed-to-hell-and-back Converse on top of the fuzzy and impeccably trimmed welcome mat before him. The mat itself isn’t much bigger than a sheet a printer paper and is inconspicuous enough, just a plain brown piece of coarse fabric with little cross-hatchings and the word ‘WELCOME’ carved in blocky letters.

He presses the doorbell, clenching his hands in fists, digging his nails into his palms.

_Ding-dong._

No answer.

He presses it once again after a moment. The door creaks open, and there he is. Enjolras is dressed in a warm red sweater with his gold curls tied back in a bun. He looks exhausted, but as soon as their eyes lock, a smile stretches wide across his cheeks.

He pulls Grantaire into a sweet kiss, like the first one they shared, caressing his face and smiling against his lips. After they pull apart, Enjolras whispers three words.

“Welcome home, _cheri.”_


End file.
